Classic In the Pits--A Jack Colby classic car mystery

by Amy Myers

  Mike’s son, Jason Pryde.

  ‘I like cars,’ he told me conversationally, looking at mine. ‘This one – it’s good.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said warily. ‘I liked your concert too.’ I expressed my sympathy for his father’s death but he merely stared at me. Not in surprise or in obvious grief or shock, but as if I had said nothing and he was summing me up.

  Then he remarked, ‘My grandmama had a Gordon-Keeble. When I was a kid, I got a kick out of the tortoise – still do.’

  The tortoise is the emblem of the Gordon-Keeble, said to have been chosen because a pet tortoise unexpectedly crawled across the path of the prototype.

  ‘Miranda Pryde was a great singer,’ I said awkwardly, as his father’s murder was clearly off the subject list and Jason was still staring intently at me.

  He nodded. ‘Yes, she was. You’re Jack Colby, aren’t you? Liz told me about you. You’re a car detective, here about my father’s Porsche.’

  ‘Correct.’

  Unexpectedly, he smiled. It lit up his face and changed him briefly from a mystery man to a human being. ‘I loved that car. Did you know Steve McQueen drove with a broken foot when he came second in the 1970 twelve-hour race at Sebring? He was in a Porsche 908.’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ I replied, somewhat thrown. I hope I find the missing Porsche for your family.’ One part of me was aware this was a crazy conversation with his father’s death hanging over us, but I told myself again that grief has strange ways of showing itself – and also it reminded me that Jason Pryde was no ordinary individual.

  ‘Do you?’ Another of those amazing stares. ‘Good. My father said he’d leave it to me in his will. Don’t know whether he has or not. I’ve already got a 1972 Porsche 911S. But I’ll try to help you find my father’s car.’

  I wasn’t sure whether I’d welcome his input, but I made suitably gratified noises, adding, ‘It would be a wonderful inheritance for you.’ The pound signs flashed up in my mind. A quarter of a million and rising. As an inheritance, whether it was sold, or retained, it was a major asset – and if it was never found, so was the insurance.

  ‘My stepmother won’t think so,’ he replied with great seriousness. ‘She expects it to be hers.’

  From the way she had been talking, she might still do so. How would she take it if Jason was right about his inheritance? Not well, I was sure of that.

  ‘Have you met Arthur?’ Jason continued.

  ‘Briefly. He was sitting with your grandfather in the clubhouse.’

  ‘Was he? That’s odd. Arthur’s a nice man, isn’t he? I like him very much.’

  There was a childlike simplicity about Jason Pryde which was engaging, but I warned myself not to underrate him. Children, after all, are a lot more intelligent than we often assume. Jason’s own family life had been and still was dysfunctional to say the least. With Mike, Boadicea, Ray and Peter possibly lined up against him, it was hardly surprising that an outsider like Arthur Howell, who had Old Herne’s interests at stake, should be a good ally for Jason. It had been Jason who’d told Liz that Old Herne’s was closing – was he glad or sorry that it’d had a reprieve? That, however, had been before Mike’s death.

  ‘Arthur wants to meet you again,’ Jason added.

  This was a surprise. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  Jason stood aside as I got into the Gordon-Keeble. ‘I’m glad I met you,’ he said.

  ‘Do you want my mobile number in case you want to get in touch?’ I asked politely.

  He confounded me yet again. ‘I already have it.’

  FOUR

  Frogs Hill was a welcome haven after the events of the day. It was dark as I drove the Gordon-Keeble home. The winding lanes from Piper’s Green have no street lighting and I felt an idiotic splurge of gratitude as my security lights blazed out in their friendly way as I arrived. My farmhouse and the Pits seemed a refuge. Frogs Hill had been my childhood home until my university days, my oil career and my early (brief) marriage took me away. When my father’s illness had brought me home some years back, living at Frogs Hill had cured any remaining wanderlust for ever. I was here to stay (hefty mortgage or not), which meant that Frogs Hill Classic Car Restorations, begun by my father and Len, was a permanent fixture. I doubt if Len or Zoe would even notice if I said it was closing. They’d just carry on working. Correction: they might feel differently if Harry Prince took it over. His eyes are permanently fixed on acquiring Frogs Hill not only for the business but for the Glory Boot, housed in an annex to the farmhouse, and it was there that I decided to take a belated snack when I returned.

  My father’s priceless collection of automobilia varies from the nut bolt that fell off a Liège–Rome–Liège winner to a collection of paintings by the now world-famous Giovanni, who still blows in once in a while to re-examine his surreal works of glory. This task usually reduces him to tears of admiration at his prowess, which are only dried by a bottle or two of the finest Chianti.

  I don’t exactly chat to Dad in the Glory Boot but I undoubtedly feel his calming (or reproving) presence there. I certainly did tonight as I perched on an old leather rally seat, still punch-drunk from the combination of Swoosh’s magic and Mike’s murder. The two just did not fit. I’d be the last person to say that the classic car world doesn’t know the seamier side of life but events such as Swoosh are their showcases, when everyday life is put aside for a while. The fact that it had intruded with such violence took some readjustment on my part – especially as I’d liked Mike and felt his death personally.

  Dad would have felt the same way, which is probably why I could sense so clearly what he would have had to say about my problem. I had been at Swoosh on a straight car job for the Kent Car Crime Unit to find a stolen Porsche and I still had to carry on with it. Brandon, moreover, had suggested that I hang around Old Herne’s, implying the theft was connected to Mike’s death. Was I comfortable with that? Not entirely. I’d liked Mike, I loved Old Herne’s and I fancied Jessica Hart. Did these ingredients glue together? I wasn’t sure, even though they could give me an entrée into the Old Herne’s world behind the scenes. On the other hand, there could be a possible conflict of interest, as Jessica would be at least the temporary successor to Mike. There was also the question of the Porsche’s ownership if it was found again, and if not there was the insurance issue. Quicksand ahead. A foot wrong and I was sunk. Would that stop me? No.

  As I closed the Glory Boot door behind me, I sensed a waft of approval from its founder. OK, I told him, I’ll sleep on it, and if you really think it’s a good idea for me to stick my nose in, come back to me tomorrow.

  My landline promptly rang at eight a.m. the next morning. I detached myself from my coffee mug, padded over to answer it and received a boom in my ear.

  ‘Jack Colby? Glenn Howell, Arthur’s son. Can you get over here right away? Dad wants to talk.’

  Phew, that was quick! I mentally congratulated my own dad. Whatever Arthur Howell wanted to see me about, it showed a degree of interest beyond the stolen car. Glenn made it sound as though he was conferring a favour, which remained to be proven. Arthur would hardly be consulting me on the future of Old Herne’s, but the stolen Porsche alone seemed an unlikely topic in the current circumstances.

  ‘Can’t make it before eleven, I’m afraid.’ There was a delightful six-cylinder 1935 Wolseley Hornet Special with engine trouble booked into the Pits at nine thirty and Len wanted me to share the excitement of the diagnosis.

  A brief silence at the other end of the line. Then a slightly incredulous: ‘Sure about that? He’s real keen.’

  I said I was sure so, sounding somewhat disgruntled, Glenn said he would meet me in the Cricketers Hotel lobby. Another family on the horizon, then, which might have its own agenda. I could see Jessica’s position might become that of battering ram between two families. Which end would be wielding the power?

  Len spent so long discussing the Wolseley with its owner and then – the real fun – reaching his own diag
nosis with me as an admiring stooge that I feared I wasn’t going to make it on time, but at last I managed to prise myself out of the Pits and into my Alfa. The trouble, he had informed me with pride, was faulty ignition timing advance. All this excitement took me away from the tragedy at Old Herne’s and why Arthur Howell wanted to see me. Whatever it was, it could be a valuable contribution to my job and judging by the speed of his summons it must be urgent.

  The Cricketers is a great place. It’s on the outskirts of Harrietsham, a village on the A20, and the hotel had acquired its name from the fact that the famous nineteenth-century cricketer Alfred ‘the Mighty’ Mynn lived locally and played for the Harrietsham Cricket Club. The hotel doesn’t possess a private cricket pitch but it does have plenty of old prints and paintings to celebrate the sport.

  I found not Glenn Howell but his daughter Fenella the Stunner awaiting me; she was the supercilious lady I’d noted at the concert. She did not look particularly pleased to see me and she was indeed a stunner. Slim as a beanpole, stylishly and expensively clad, and cool as a cucumber – the latter being a traditional remedy for sore eyes, as she was. The message she was putting over, however, was that whatever plans she had for her life they would not include Jack Colby. Fine by me, because inscrutable felines – and her mask-like face did give her this resemblance – aren’t my speciality. My welcoming smile relaxed the mask, albeit only by a millimetre or two.

  ‘I saw you yesterday at the show,’ she informed me almost accusingly.

  ‘It was a tough time for you as well as the Nelsons.’

  ‘Especially my grandfather. He’s in one of his moods today, so we’ve no idea why he asked you to come here.’ She made it sound as though this were my fault. She took me up in the lift to a suite on the top floor, from which there was a glorious view of the Downs. I expected to find Glenn installed with his father but there was only Arthur Howell sitting by the window. Fenella too departed, presumably at Arthur’s wish. I was intrigued, not knowing whether to be glad or sorry that I wasn’t to get the full family experience. On the whole I was glad, I decided. One to one is usually more productive.

  Arthur looked his full age this morning, and I wondered what on earth was coming my way. Just a request for an update on the Porsche? Coffee and croissants were on a table before him, but no sign of his having touched them himself.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Colby,’ he said quietly and I took the armchair facing him. ‘Coffee?’ He poured it with a steady hand and then there was a silence for a few minutes as I drank it and he made a token attempt at doing the same. ‘See those hills?’ he eventually asked.

  He was looking out at them and a fine sight they were in their early summer green, but Arthur didn’t wait for any comment from me. Instead he continued, ‘I’m going to tell you why I set up Old Herne’s. OK by you?’

  It was, but I became even more intrigued as to the reason for this visit.

  ‘My father was British-born,’ he told me. ‘Saw war the first time round and went to the States later. He fought on the ground and had a bad time at Messines in 1917. That’s what made me choose the air. Thunderbolts, Jack. That’s what I flew in World War II. Stationed at Debden in Essex, Fifty-Sixth Group. Been to the American Air Museum at Duxford, have you?’

  I had, which impressed him.

  ‘Great building, isn’t it?’ he continued. ‘Thunderbolts are rare beasts nowadays, but they house one there for a private owner. I go and look at it once in a while, and go back to Debden too, but my heart’s buried deep at Old Herne’s.’

  ‘I heard you crash-landed there.’

  ‘Right. Summer of ’forty-three that was, mid August. Flying the new model P-47D. Ever been in a Thunderbolt?’

  A rhetorical question because he swept on: ‘Monsters they were, not like your Spitfires. Joke was you could get lost finding your way round the cockpit. We were day fighters, escorting the heavy bombers – Fortresses, Liberators – and under arrangement with West Malling airfield here in Kent we could refuel there. Old Herne’s was its auxiliary advance landing ground. Black Wednesday – heard of that? Bad day for the Eighth Air Force bombers over Regensburg and Schweinfurt. We fighters mostly fared better – not me though. Thunderbolts had belly tanks then which meant problems. I caught some strikes from some Focke-Wulfs – engine trouble, and I only just made it to Old Herne’s. The Thunderbolts were noble beasts and I got away with only minor burns and cuts, thanks to the Crossley guys. I was taken to West Malling, and they checked me over and sorted out the Thunderbolt wreckage. I was a lieutenant, so I stayed at the Manor House – know about that?’

  ‘A new one on me,’ I told him.

  ‘It was the West Malling officers’ mess. Great place, flowers, lake, lawns. When you were there, you could pretend there wasn’t a war on. Till the next mission, that is. It was there I met Miranda Pryde. Her voice,’ he continued, ‘you’ll have heard on records and film, but that was nothing to the real experience. You think Jason can sing? He can, but not like that. Miranda and her partner Ray toured, so I got them to come up to Debden once or twice and the next year I was back in Kent at the same time as they were. D-Day time, when we were trying to persuade the Luftwaffe that we were planning to attack Calais, not Normandy. Heard of the Twitch Inn?’

  ‘No pub of that name round here now,’ I told him. I’d have remembered a name like that.

  He grinned. ‘It was a nickname for the cellar at the Manor House, used for entertainment in the evenings, music, drinks – quite a place. A substitute night club. Only problem was there were no women allowed there – except for the barmaid and sometimes the singer. That’s where Miranda sang. In the weeks following D-Day, I made a vow. If I got through this I’d make enough dough to do something as a memorial to Old Herne’s – that’s if we won the war. None too sure of that then. I wanted Old Herne’s to be remembered. Over here you have your castles and churches and all that history around you. When twenty years later I heard Old Herne’s was for sale, I thought I’d add to this heritage of yours by making sure the old place didn’t disappear. Miranda and Ray had given up touring by that time and Mike was already addicted to racing, and so it seemed to me we could combine the two to the satisfaction of all. Mike had his Porsche and I bought that Morgan.’

  ‘So yesterday’s tragedy must have been a personal blow, having known Mike so long.’

  All this time he had been gazing out of that window but now he turned his face to me. ‘Yes. A long time, Mr Colby.’

  ‘Jack,’ I murmured.

  He nodded. ‘They all call me Arthur. Reckon that’s a good name to have around these parts. Your King Arthur’s supposed to have fought a battle or two in Kent.’

  ‘That’s the legend.’

  ‘Where do legends spring from? Guess no one sits down and says I’ll dream up a great legend today. Somewhere there’s a truth hiding inside. That’s why I called you here.’

  I was thrown for a moment. ‘About King Arthur?’

  He didn’t even notice this idiocy. ‘About Mike. I’m told you’re some kind of private eye.’

  Tread cautiously, I thought. ‘Yes, to find stolen cars. I work with the Kent Police Car Crime Unit.’

  ‘The folks in the hotel say more than that. There’s a story about an Auburn and a murder round these parts.’1

  ‘That’s true but I’m not employed in that capacity.’

  ‘I’m employing you, Jack. Any objection?’

  A mental sledgehammer hit my face. ‘For Mike’s murder?’

  ‘Your police are good, I’m told, but it’s my guess you can do what I want quicker. You can tell me what’s going on. I don’t care if the police get there first with the chains and cuffs. I want the background story all the way along and I want results.’

  ‘Hold on,’ I interrupted. ‘Sorry, but this is not possible.’ I had a vision of Brandon’s face if he ever found out. True, he wanted me to ‘stick around’ but I knew full well that was limited in scope.

  ‘It would clash with
your police job?’ he shot back at me.

  ‘Yes, but there’s another angle that worries me more. Mike Nelson was one of the most likeable chaps I’ve ever met and I can’t see who would want to kill him unless it’s to do with Old Herne’s and possibly the Porsche too.’

  ‘Agreed. But your Porsche job gives you a free pass to nose around Old Herne’s.’

  ‘If,’ I continued doggedly, ‘Mike’s murder is linked to Old Herne’s, that means people you know being involved – his family, his employees, even you as owner.’ The more I thought about it, the more likely the Old Herne’s angle seemed. Mike would not have been happy about a casual stranger messing around on the Crossley, nor, if he had been checking under the Crossley’s bonnet, would he have asked a stranger to start her up.

  ‘I see where you’re going, Jack,’ he said quietly. ‘Go on.’

  ‘And therefore your family could be involved too.’

  He looked at me. ‘Why do you think we’re on our own here, Jack? And I made sure the room isn’t bugged. Always do that anyway. You’re a straight man, that’s what I’m told, and I reckon that’s what I see. I don’t know who killed Mike, but I’m going to find out and I want you to help me whatever the result. OK by you?’

  I quickly thought this through. Could I depend on him still to think this way if push came to shove? ‘With reservations,’ I told him.

  ‘Name them.’

  ‘First, whether the results do or don’t please you, I have to report to the police.’

  ‘Goes without saying,’ he grunted.

  ‘Second, I have to tell them of any material discoveries even if they don’t seem to be leading anywhere.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Third—’ I hesitated over this one, but I had no choice. ‘I heard you’ve given Old Herne’s a reprieve, but I need to know more about the situation before I begin. Are you still considering closing it down, what’s the legal position now, and does Mike’s death affect what you’re planning to do?’